Before the Winter Comes (The Chaos AU Part 17)
by LindaO
Summary: Harold Finch never expected to get a second chance at love. Now that he has it, he's not going to waste any time tying it up. A library, a dinner party, a surprise for the guests,and one last surprise for Christine - all before the first snow of winter falls. Next in the Chaos AU, no Number, just ships (finally!) being launched.


"I wonder if the snow loves the trees and fields, that it kisses them so gently? And then it covers them up snug, you know, with a white quilt; and perhaps it says 'Go to sleep, darlings, till the summer comes again.'" ― Lewis Carroll

The Grand Tour, as they had come to call the inaugural overseas trip by most of the senior members of the Carson-Ingram Renewable Energy Initiative, had originally been scheduled to last five days. By the time they left, the schedule had been expanded to twenty-one days. Once they were overseas, additional invitations added two more days due to the agenda invitations, and then weather delays stalled their return for another thirty-six hours.

Harold Finch needed all but the last ten hours of all that time to make his vision into a reality.

Then, when everything was set and the last detail attended to, and when his beloved was finally on her way home, the Machine gave him a number.

It seemed to Finch that it was inevitable.

Harold put the flight tracker on the screen furthest to his right. He worked the case on the other two screens. He had initially thought that the Machine was engaged in what Nathan would have crudely but accurately called _cock-blocking_ him, but as he dug further into the case he found that there was a young man apparently genuinely in danger. Kevin Bishop was the single father of two small girls. His wife had been killed in a drunk driving accident two years before. Bishop had moved into the apartment next to his mother so that she could help with the girls. He worked the night shift, and drove home in time to take the girls to pre-school.

But the day before, he hadn't come home. And he hadn't been heard from since.

It was an interesting case, and required all his skills. But he couldn't bring himself to turn the flight tracker off.

 _Christine was coming home._

Five minutes after the little icon of the plane touched down, just after noon, he paused his research to send a short text.

WORKING

SO SORRY

It wasn't what he wanted to say. He wanted to be waiting in the cold at the airstrip. He wanted to pull her into his arms in the dark and kiss her as they sped through the city. He wanted –

He sighed and added,

CALL ME AS SOON AS YOU'RE ALONE

PLEASE

There was a two-minute pause. Finch imagined her gathering up all the cups and trash on the private jet before she deplaned, because she would do that, or wrestling her carry-on down the narrow stairs, or hugging Taylor before she turned him over to the driver to take him home, or –

EVERYTHING OK?

Or, he realized, maybe just frowning at her phone trying to figure out if there was some hidden message in his text. He smiled wryly.

FINE

DID NOT MEAN TO ALARM YOU

JUST ANXIOUS TO HEAR YOUR VOICE

That last felt uncomfortably sentimental. But it was true.

IN CAR WITH WILL. WILL CALL YOU WHEN I GET HOME. ABOUT 30.

Harold nodded. Then, realizing that gestures were inadequate, he answered,

TALK TO YOU THEN

He put his phone down gently. He wished he could be there when she got home. He wished he could see her face when she saw what he'd done. He wished he could kiss her when she came through the door.

His earpiece chirped, demanding his attention. He tapped it. "I'm here, Mr. Reese."

Finch had just found a new place to look for the missing father, and John was on his way, when he phone finally rang. He double-checked that his end of the com link was on mute before he picked up the call. "Christine?"

"I'm home," she said wearily. "You didn't tell me Julie was as big as a house."

"I would never say such a thing," Finch answered firmly. Will Ingram's wife was entering the final month of her pregnancy. She had given up running, but was still an avid swimmer, and the persistent exercise had let her maintain her balance and flexibility; though she was large, she had retained most of her grace.

But yes, in the three weeks since they'd been gone, she had grown almost exponentially.

"Oh, hello," Christine said, clearly not to him. Then, "Puck claims he hasn't been fed since I left."

"Outrageous lies."

"Obviously. Look at this fat little belly!" There was another pause, probably while she put the little cat down. "It is good to be home."

"You sound tired."

"I am exhausted. I need a long shower and a longer sleep." She paused again. "I've missed you, Random."

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Harold promised. "And in the interim, I've got a –" He had to stop because suddenly he was almost giggling and he fought to keep it out of his voice. "A gift, of sorts."

Christine groaned. "Something extravagant, I suppose?"

"No, not at … yes. Yes, I'm afraid it is."

"You didn't have to get me anything."

"If you hate it, it can all be undone in 72 hours."

"What?"

"Or we can change any aspect, of course."

"Random, what did you do?"

Finch wiped his hand over his face, but he could _not_ get the grin to go away. "Are you still in the kitchen?"

"Yeah."

"Go out to the hall."

"The … why are there double doors here? This room didn't used to have double … "

Finch sat back, his lips pressed into a tight smile. He could see Christine in his mind, her confusion at the double doors where there had been a single door before. The big red bows on each of them. The shiny gift bag on the door handle. Inside there was a children's board book with a bunny and his mother on the cover. On the first page, his inscription, _The first of many – Random_. He could imagine her standing with her hand on the door handle, already guessing and afraid to open it.

Very quietly, Christine asked, "What did you do?"

"Plato says that a house that has a library in it has a soul," Finch answered.

"Oh my God."

He listened as the door creaked softly open. The right door. Reese had oiled the left door, so it opened soundlessly, but the right door, the one most strangers would use, would give away their location. Not that they were ever likely to need such an advantage – hopefully.

Very soft footsteps – she would have kicked her shoes off at the door – on the hardwood floor. "Oh my God," she said again, softly.

 _Do you like it?_ Finch wanted to ask. _Do you really really like it?_ He bit his lower lip and stayed silent.

"Oh." It was barely a breath.

There was a soft slap. The picture book hitting the floor. Then there was a distinctly louder _thump_.

"Christine? Are you alright?"

"I sat down," she said faintly.

"That's … probably wise. Do you need help? I can have Will come up …"

"No." There was another pause, an audible breath. "No, I'm okay … I'm just … Random. You built me a library."

"Yes."

"In three weeks. You build me a _library_."

"Well you forbid me to rebuild Windows on the World, so I had to improvise."

"Random."

"We can remodel. Change anything you like. Tear it out entirely …"

"No."

Finch smiled. "Your home was not complete without a true library, Christine."

She was silent for a long moment. And then, simply, "Thank you."

He glanced at his monitors. His search was 82 percent complete, and John was within five minutes of his destination. "I have to go soon," he said. "I'll be there when I can. You should get some rest."

"Mmmmm."

"Christine."

"Rest. Yes."

"Oh, and we're having a dinner party on Saturday."

"Huh?"

"It will be catered. Everything's arranged. Just our friends, casual dress. There's not a thing you have to do. I've asked them each to bring a copy of their favorite book."

"For the library."

"Yes."

"Oh."

"I could cancel it."

"No."

"Or postpone …"

"No."

Finch hesitated. "Are you okay?"

"You built me a library."

He couldn't resist. "Do you like it?"

"I do. Yes."

"I'll see you soon." Grinning without restraint, Finch clicked his phone off. Then, with a firm shake of his head, he turned back to searching for a missing father.

Christine Fitzgerald put her phone down beside her on the hardwood floor.

Hardwood. Floor. Her brain stuttered over those simple words, and she stared at the dark boards. The floor had been bare pine when she left. Now it was old seasoned oak, dark and warm under a fresh coat of – varnish? Wax? The room smelled very faintly of paint.

The old library, the one they were going to tear down. Random had gutted it, brought much of it here, built her a library.

He'd built her a _library_.

She put her hands over her face. It was too much. It was _too much_. And that fact that if she said so, if she managed to put that into words, he would make it all vanish almost overnight, just made it worse. Too much. Entirely too much.

 _This is what comes of letting a man buy you a building._

 _It's too much_ , she thought again. And then, finally, the truth: _I want it. I want to keep it. I want it so badly that it terrifies me._

There was a tiny polite tap on her leg. Christine sat up, startled, and dropped her hands. One of the kittens stepped politely into her lap. "Hello, Ariel." She stroked the kitten's black fur. Unlike her brother, who was markedly heavier, the female had remained slim in her absence. "Did you miss me?" Her voice echoed weirdly in the mostly-empty room.

The little cat bumped her hand against Christine's hand until she rubbed her ears.

"We have a library, little girl. I suppose you already knew that." She wondered what Harold had done with the cats during the construction. And with Julie downstairs. It would have been a noisy project. Julie had just wanted peace and quiet ….

The black cat turned her head, bit Christine's thumb gently, and then walked away.

The brief interruption was enough to let the woman regain her emotional balance – mostly. She didn't try to stand, but she looked up and actually studied the room for the first time.

In the center of the room there was a long, broad library table. It was surrounded by eight straight-backed chairs. Two large chandeliers hung down over it, with elegant stained glass shades. "Louis Comfort Tiffany," Christine breathed. Those had most certainly not come from any branch of the New York Public Library System.

There were four more matching chairs spread out against the far wall, in front of book cases that stretched all the way to the twelve-foot ceiling.

The windows on the far wall were security glass, one-way. They had been dressed with sheer, pale gold curtains, tied back with deep green cords. Between the windows there were shelves. Along every wall there were shelves. The shelves themselves were plain, but the vertical sides were beautifully, modestly decorative, and the top and bottom pieces were ornate. They had the dull gleam of a hundred years of wax and wear. They looked as if they had surrounded the room forever.

There were ladders that slid on a rail that encircled the room. Christine grinned broadly. She wanted to run and climb on one, to kick off the shelves and slide down to the next one, like some mad-cap Disney musical scene, or a steampunk fantasy novel. Soon. Not quite yet.

On her left, the entire back wall of the library was lined with shelves. There were three sets of two-sided shelves that stood out at right angles to the main wall, like the fat teeth on a comb. The ladder rail circled these shelves elegantly. One of these, Christine realized, must open into John and Harold's secret room. But with the protruding shelves, that six feet of space between the pantry and laundry room off her kitchen and the back wall of the library seemed to disappear. It would take a blueprint and a laser measurement to know that there was space there.

At the far corner of the room, between the outside wall and the last set of shelves, she could see the edge of a bright green rug.

She looked to her right. At the far end of the library there was a fireplace surrounded by exposed brick, with a wide granite hearth. The logs looked real, but she was sure it was a gas-burner, like the one on the other side of the wall in the living room. In front of the hearth there was a long leather couch, rich mahogany in color, flanked by end tables and then by wing-backed chairs. There were lamps on the tables, with stained glass shades that matched the chandeliers. It looked like the perfect place to sprawl with a good book on a rainy afternoon. There was even a fisherman knit throw over the back of the couch.

In the opposite corner, past the door to her office that had been a secret panel before, were two love loveseats with a low coffee table between them. There were gold hassocks tucked under each end of the table. Christine guessed that the love seats could lay flat and make small beds. The whole section was the gaming area, preserved for Taylor and Lee.

There were shelves over every inch of wall space. There was room for thousands on thousands of books. All the books she could ever buy. All the books she could ever want. More books than she could read in the rest of her life.

She closed her eyes again.

Then she opened them. "Not me," she said clearly. "This isn't for me. It's for _us_."

That piece clicked with perfect logic. Harold had built a library for her, yes, but of course he would share it. Of course it was _their_ library. _They_ would curl up on the big couch under the white blanket and read in front of the fire. They would shelve piles and boxes of books on the expansive shelves. This would be their space, their haven … for as long as they had.

Christine clambered to her feet. It was bearable now, the vastness of this gift. It was still huge and overwhelming, but she could accept it. Because this was a place Harold had created as much for himself as for her. Because it was for _them_.

She bent and picked up the board book she had dropped. _Guess How Much I Love You_.

With sudden understanding, she walked toward the bit of green rug she saw in the far corner. Nestled between in the three-sided square formed by the last of the protruding shelves, the back wall, and the outside wall was what was obviously the children's section. The green square of carpet was dotted with white and yellow spots that looked like wildflowers in a green lawn. It was soft and heavily padded. There was a padded rocking chair with a matching foot rest. There were little toddler stools shaped like toadstools and painted with bright colors. There were fat, bright pillows. And there was a wooden cradle, which stood on sturdy little legs and had no rockers at all.

On the shelf, all by itself, was the book she had gotten Harold the Christmas before, Terry Prachett's _Where's My Cow_. She put the bunny-covered book with it. Books for baby Ingram. It was a start.

She couldn't decide whether to grin or cry, so she did both at once.

Her phone vibrated, buzzing across the hardwood floor where she'd left it. Christine chased it down and glanced at the message. Will Ingram.

IS HAROLD UP THERE?

Christine wiped her eyes with the heel of her hand.

NO. HE'S WORKING.

Will texted back immediately,

CAN I COME SEE THE LIBRARY?

She grinned. Of course Julie had known about this project – how could she not? – but she hadn't said a word to Will in their daily phone calls. Because Will could not keep a secret.

SURE COME ON UP

She tucked her phone into her pocket. "Alan," she called, "please let Will and Julie in when they get here."

"Of course," her computer answered, in Alan Rickman's voice, from the direction of the fireplace.

Christine turned. Over the mantle there was of course a piece of artwork in an ornate frame. She walked closer, crying again. The vast landscape was a wide green field, with the sea beyond, and the round gray ruins of a watchtower … the artist had even captured the sheep that had followed her curiously as she'd walked across that field and freed her father's ashes in the circle of the tower …

She reached up and touched the painting. It was unexpectedly smooth. A blue dot appeared under the pressure of her fingertips.

It wasn't a painting. It was a screen. It displayed the postcard she'd brought home from Ireland. The pixels were so dense that the tiny photo hadn't distorted in the zoom …

"Ohhhh," she breathed. If she'd had any lingering doubts that this was her lover's room as much as her own, they vanished. Harold could work here without ever leaving the couch.

She heard the back door open. "Scotty?"

"In here." It wasn't necessary; Will and Julie found their way.

They stopped pretty in the same spot where Christine had dropped to the floor. "Holy shit!" Will said.

"Yeah, that's what I said."

He turned to his wife. "You knew about this?"

Julie nodded. "Kinda hard not to."

"And you didn't tell me."

"I was bribed to keep silent."

"With what?"

She took his hand and led him to the green corner. Christine followed. "Harold said he'd read the baby to sleep any time we needed him to."

Ingram looked around again. "This is incredible. I mean, it's gorgeous, but … wow."

Christine nodded.

He picked up the little board book. _Guess How Much I Love You_. "I didn't realize …" He stopped himself, put the book down.

"I haven't been allowed up since the furniture arrived," Julie said. "It is gorgeous. That table –" she pointed to the big library table "—caused _so_ much swearing. Words even I had never heard before."

"I'm so sorry." Christine took her hand. "All you wanted was a little rest and quiet, and instead you got a construction zone."

"All I wanted," Julie corrected, "was to not be treated like a fragile little invalid. And I got that. This was a blast, watching them put all this stuff in. Really. Harold offered to put me up at the Coronet, but they didn't bother me much. I stayed down in the office all day, and he made them quit when I went to bed at night."

"Do you want …" Will paused. "You can say no if you want, I won't be offended, I promise. But all of Dad's books from the loft, they're still in storage. If you want them … I know he'd love for you to have them."

"Oh. Yes, please." Her voice cracked. She gave up on pretending that she wasn't crying.

He put his arm around her.

"Is Uncle Harold …" Will began again. He shook his head. "I'm not gonna ask. When he's ready, or you are, you'll tell me. But … for what it's worth … I would be really glad to have him around more. A lot more. Really."

Christine nodded. "Thank you."

"He told you about the dinner party, right?" Julie asked.

"He said something about something, but I missed most of it."

"Saturday night. Someone named Becky Baker is catering. Just friends and family. Here in the library. A book warming, I guess. And welcome home. And such."

"Okay."

"We're gonna go," Julie said firmly. "You should get some sleep. So should Will."

"I tried to sleep on the plane," he said. "Now I need a chiropractor."

"Could have told you that." She kissed Christine's cheek. "I'm glad you're home."

After they left, Christine walked the perimeter of the library. She traced her fingertips over the shelves. She climbed one of the ladders and scooted it gently along the row. She opened the door to the office and left it standing open. She considered the futon beds – which looked like antique furniture but definitely weren't – and then the long leather couch.

She did not let herself sit down. If she did, she knew she would fall asleep. And like Will, she was already kinked up from sleeping on the plane. She needed a long hot shower, and then a real bed and room to sprawl on it.

But _he'd built her a library_ , and she never wanted to leave this room.

Christine let herself walk around the room again, this time counter-clockwise. Then, resolutely, she went out, reclaimed her suitcase, and dragged it down the hall to her bedroom.

Both of the black cats were asleep on her bed. They were largely unimpressed with her return.

Beside them was a white business envelope.

Christine picked it up. It had been slit neatly along the top seam. Inside was a single piece of paper. A medical report, test results, all negative, for a Norman Burdett, signed by a doctor named Megan TIllman.

She bit her lip. The night of the ball, when he dropped her off before going to save someone's life, when they couldn't seem to stop kissing. She had said, she thought quite reasonably, that if they were going to be monogamous they should get blood tests while she was gone. He had agreed without hesitation – but his face had gone pink right to the tips of his ears. He had muttered something about modern women being a blessing. And then, apparently, he'd stopped and gotten some blood drawn.

She'd actually had hers drawn the week before, when she was getting the last of her inoculations. She wondered if he knew that. Probably not, at the time, but he might have found out since.

She dropped the letter into her top drawer and stripped off her clothes. Long hot shower, she mused wearily. And then bed … a thought glimmered, something about the library, then skipped away. She shrugged. It would come back. Long hot shower.

She opened her drawer to grab her usual sleep sweats and a t-shirt. Donnelly's old FBI sweatshirt was on top. It had been navy blue when she snagged it from his apartment after his death; now it was faded to a sort of blue-gray. Some day it would wear out entirely. For now, it was the single most comfortable piece of clothing she owned. But she didn't take it out. Instead, she reached to the other side, for the unbleached muslin nightgown she'd bought in Ireland.

 _It matched the library better._

She wandered half-dressed to the guest bedroom, where Harold had been staying while she was gone. The bed was neatly made. There were four books in a tidy pile on the nightstand, beside half a glass of water. The end of a phone charger snaked up from the wall.

She opened the closet. Six suits hung there, and about ten shirts.

There was no sign of a suitcase. He hadn't packed. He wasn't planning on leaving. At least not soon.

Of course, it would take him five minutes to pack. Or he could simply leave his things here and move on to one of his fifty or so other well-stocked houses. His things didn't mean anything.

The library, on the other hand …

Christine smiled to herself. She didn't know the answer to the question Will had so gently not asked: _Was Harold moving in with her?_ And for the moment, the answer didn't bother her much one way or the other. If he didn't stay, he had a big room full of empty shelves that promised he was coming back.

He'd be here when he could. For now, she needed no more definition.

Shower, she told herself firmly. Bed.

She went into the bathroom. Harold's pajamas and robe hung neatly on hooks on the back of the door.

It took the rest of the day and much of the night to locate the missing Kevin Bishop. Reese and Bear finally found him in the woods at the edge of the cemetery where his wife was buried. His leg was badly broken and he was suffering from exposure and dehydration, but John had seen him safely to a hospital and he was expected to make a full, if slow, recovery.

"I'm beat, Finch," Reese said over the com from the hospital parking lot. "You want the dog, or should I keep him with me?"

"Keep him," Finch said quickly. "Go home, get some sleep."

"Uh-huh. Call me when the next one pops up."

"I certainly will. Good night, John."

"Night, Harold."

Alone in the library, Finch stood up slowly and stretched as his computer system shut down. He gathered up the papers and took down the pictures, placed them in a file and tucked them away. Then he took down his overcoat and prepared to go home.

 _Home_. He paused at the top of the stairs. He had kissed Grace and walked out of the townhouse years ago and had never gone home again. After that day he had lived many places, but he had deliberately never spent more than two nights in a row in any of them. He had bought properties and stored books and clothes and technology across the city. But he had never considered any of them _home_.

All that time John Reese had spent trying to find out where he lived, and he had never guessed that Finch basically lived nowhere. He was, in a very pampered, upscale way, just as homeless as Reese had been.

Then, three weeks before, Harold had kissed Christine Fitzgerald, and nearly every night since he had gone to her home. He had slept there and showered there, prepared his meals there, hung his suits there. He had supervised the construction of the library there. He had washed his underclothes and the sheets off his bed in her washing machine. He had fed her cats and cleaned their cat box; he had read aloud to them, though he felt a bit foolish doing so and they were highly unimpressed, and he had grudgingly allowed them to sleep around his feet.

In Christine's absence, he had begun, day by day, to grow re-acquainted with the idea and then the reality of having a home. He had grown slowly accustomed to it.

But now Christine was back. It was _her_ home, and he was uncertain.

Harold walked down the steps slowly. The pain in his back was suddenly sharp.

Christine loved him. He loved her. But they had had no time to negotiate what form that love would take. They had spoken nearly every day of her trip, but it had been stilted and careful; they were both achingly aware that their conversations were almost certainly being monitored, and so _I'll talk to you soon_ and _tell Will I said_ _hello_ had had to serve as their code for _I love you_. And there was a space between _I love you_ and _I want you to move in with me_ that they had not even begun to cross _._ He realized that he had made assumptions, lulled himself into thinking the matter was settled. It was not. Christine Fitzgerald was an intensely independent woman – sometimes. He was himself very insular, very solitary. Perhaps they could share a space happily. Perhaps not. But the question was by no means settled.

So now, right now, when he wanted to go _home_ – where should he go?

He walked carefully over the books scattered on the ground floor and stepped through the service door onto the sidewalk. It was cold and dark. _Dark_ , Finch thought, and that was his answer. It was well past midnight, but far from dawn. Showing up at Christine's house now, in the middle of the night, would be rude. In the real morning would be better. With breakfast. _Yes._

Also – he had been wearing the same clothes for the better part of two days.

He walked as quickly as he could toward the nearest of his houses. A shower, a shave, a few hours' sleep and a clean suit. Then it would be the appropriate time.

He wasn't sure if he was being brilliantly practical or just too nervous to see her.

According to the weather app on Harold's phone, the sun would rise at 7:16 a.m. Dawn, he decided, would commence not more than 30 minutes before that. So it was utterly contrary to his plan that at 4:50 he suddenly could no bear any further delay. He checked his tie in the mirror – he had already changed it three times, and he was not especially happy with this choice, either, but he did not want to delay long enough to change again. He threw on his overcoat and went out into the darkness.

The security guard at CIREI buzzed him into the building. They knew him well now. He went to the back of the building and climbed the stairs slowly. He remembered that he'd forgotten breakfast and almost turned back. But there were link sausages and eggs in the refrigerator, and good Italian bread; that would do.

Christine would be sleeping. Wouldn't she? Her circadian rhythm was probably still off after her long trip. Maybe she was awake. Maybe she wasn't …

He stopped with his hand on the door handle. He wanted desperately to see her. But he was also beyond anxious. His palms were sweaty, his stomach knotted with tension. He felt like a boy on his way to pick up his date for his first middle school dance. It was quite ridiculous …

The door lock clicked. Harold jumped, startled. But it didn't mean Christine was awake; her computer knew him as well as the guard downstairs did. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

The apartment was quiet and dark-ish, the only light coming in through the windows from the streetlamps. He could see more than well enough to navigate. He hung up his coat and toed out of his shoes. He started across the kitchen and made it four steps before something soft brushed across the toes of his socks.

"Hello, Ariel," Finch said softly. He bent and picked up the little cat. She nudged her head against his chin and purred softly. Then she squirmed to be put down. He released her quickly. She had trained him that he had about ten seconds before she would bite him.

The double doors to the library were closed. Finch moved past them to Christine's bedroom. The door was open. Her bed was empty. The sheets and blankets and pillows were gone; the bed was stripped to the mattress pad.

Confused, Finch started toward the guest room. But before he got there, the library door creaked. "Random?"

He turned and walked back. Christine waited in the doorway, backlit by artificial moonlight. She wore a long white nightgown, very simple and visibly rumpled. Her hair was mildly rumpled, too. Her feet were bare. "I didn't mean to wake you."

Then he was close enough to put his arms around her, and her mouth was on his, and it was as if they had never left the event lobby of the Coronet Hotel, as if they had never stopped kissing at all. His doubts vanished, and his questions. Nothing mattered now except that she was here, warm and real in his arms.

He more than half expected to hear a phone ring.

"How was your trip?" he asked, at the same time she said, "How was your Number?"

They gave up on conversation and kissed again for a while.

"Oh, I could get used to this, too," Finch muttered to himself.

Christine giggled. "You built me a library."

"I can change it. Anything about it. Just say the word …" She shook her head, and suddenly Finch understood where the bedding from her room had gone. "You were sleeping in here."

She grinned and stepped back so he could see. She had stacked the mattresses from the futon couches in front of the fireplace and fit her bedding on the top one. There was a low fire burning, and a book open and face-down beside the pillows. "You built me a library," Christine explained. "Did you really think I wasn't going to sleep in it at least once?"

Finch pulled her close again. "I imagined you'd sleep on the big couch.

"I will," she assured him. "But tonight I needed room to sprawl."

"I'm glad you like it."

"I love it. I love _you_."

"I love you." He chuckled. "I tried to stay away longer, to let you sleep until a decent hour."

"I don't care what time it is. I'm glad you're here."

"I changed my tie four times before I came over. I couldn't decide which one you're like best."

Christine looked him squarely in the eyes. "You're wearing a tie?"

"I am."

"Take it off. Come to bed."

She started into the hall. Finch held his ground and pulled her back to him. He kissed her thoroughly. Christine raised a questioning eyebrow at him.

"I built you a library," Harold explained gently. "Did you really think I wouldn't want to make love to you in it, at least once?"

He paused only long enough to deposit his cell phone on the little table outside the library doors.

Their bodies knew the basics separately. They learned all the new variations together. They talked, at first, until they no longer needed words.

It was not perfect, by any means. But it was good, very good, full of give and take, learning and savoring, exploration and revelation and experimentation, and ultimately, of satisfied bliss.

They cuddled under the covers, after, curled together and gazing into the fire. The room brightened as the sun came up, but they were sheltered in the shadows of the big couch. Finch felt relaxed, slaked, dozy. But he did not want to sleep. For one of the very few times in his life he was exactly where he wanted to be, and there was nothing at all that he desired.

Except, perhaps, to make it last.

"Christine," he said quietly, "are you awake?"

"Yes."

"Will you marry me?"

She rolled over to look at him. "My sweet Random. I was not a maiden when you got here. You have no obligation to redeem my honor."

Finch smiled gently. "I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. However long that may or may not be. I have no right to this – to your love, to your life – but as you appear willing to grant them to me, I would very much like to be married to you."

Christine considered for a very long moment. In her bright blue eyes Finch say the intelligence and the insight he had grown to treasure. He felt as if she were looking right through him, as if she understood his every motivation and plan. It was not the first time he had felt that peculiar power of her scrutiny. But it was the first time he knew that she was genuinely seeing everything without distortion.

He was curiously unafraid of her answer. If she said no, it would change nothing. They would still be together, still in love. If she said not now, nothing would change. If she said yes – well, that would change a few things. But they would still be together and still in love.

She opened her mouth, moved her lips, but no words came out.

"Beloved?"

"… yes."

She put her head down against his chest, suddenly shy. Harold stroked his hand over her back. He felt the thin lines there, scars from her mother's beatings, years ago. They were finer and fainter than his own scars, but they were too similar to be ignored. _She and I_ , Finch thought, _we are alike._ "Whatever our souls are made of," he quoted.

"His and mine are the same," she completed.

"I believe they are." He stroked her hair, working through tangles with his fingertips. Then, without thinking, he said, "Will you marry me today?"

In the instant it took her to lift her head and look at him again, Harold understood that in that single word, _today_ , he had summoned the ghost of Grace Hendricks and invited her to climb between them on the little bed. That _today_ was not about Christine, but about losing Grace after he had proposed to her and before he could marry her.

And of course, of course, Christine knew that. Knew precisely.

Harold could not have blamed her if she had been angry. Instead, her eyes were calm, understanding. "No," she said. "Not today. I don't want to put clothes on today. I want to spend the day in bed with you."

"Alright," Finch agreed, relieved.

"But I'll marry you tomorrow, if you like."

"Hmmm." Harold considered. "At the dinner party?"

"Is tomorrow Saturday?"

"Yes."

"Then yes. Everyone will be here anyhow. Why not?"

"If we tell them, they'll try to make a fuss."

Christine nodded. "So we don't tell them ahead."

And then, in unison, they said, "Except John."

"It would not be good to surprise John in this manner," Finch said.

"No. Probably not."

"We'll need to make a few plans. Arrangements."

"Later," Christine insisted.

He kissed her. "Later," he agreed.

When Finch woke, the room was no brighter than it had been, but the pain in his neck told him that he'd slept for several hours. Also, he was very hungry.

He tried to slip off the futon stack without waking Christine, but her eyes opened the moment he moved. "Morning."

"I think it might still be, technically," Finch agreed. "Are you hungry?"

"Yes. Very."

"I'll make us some breakfast." He moved again, realized he was naked, and hesitated.

Christine sat up, blissfully un-self-conscious, and reached for her discarded nightgown. "Do you want me to bring you your robe?"

"Would you?" Harold felt his face grow warm. "It's ridiculous, of course …"

"It's chilly," she countered generously. She slipped out, came back with the robe. "We have a library," she announced happily.

"We do," he agreed.

"Will asked if I wanted Nathan's books out of storage. Would that be weird for you?"

Harold stood and belted his robe around his waist. "It would be very pleasant, since most of them are books Nathan borrowed from me and never returned anyhow."

"Ahhh. Okay."

While he cooked sausage and eggs, Christine put the sheets back on her bed and the futon cushions back on the couches. They ate brunch at one end of the big library table and talked about what Christine had seen and learned on her trip, and what Harold had done besides building a library while she was gone.

It began to rain lightly while they washed up the dishes.

They went back to bed, this time in the real bed. The kittens came and slept on their feet.

When they woke, it was mid-afternoon and they were hungry again. They called out for pho. While they waited, they both grudgingly checked their e-mails. Christine threw on her sweats and went down to the security desk to pick up their dinner.

They set up tray tables and ate on the big couch in front of the fireplace while they watched the end of _What Ever Happened to Baby Jane_ , and cuddled under the big throw while they watched all _of Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte_.

It was curious, Finch thought, how content his mind was to do basically nothing. He had little tolerance for boredom; he coded while he jogged, either literally or in his head; he read while he did push-ups. But for this one day his mind remained quiet, content in the moment, to sleep or eat or watch old movies. To hold Christine in his arms and to drink in the warmth of her touch. Here and now, he thought, _for as long as it lasts_.

"Is there some kind of waiting period in New York?" Christine asked, when Olivia de Havilland had gotten her just desserts.

"Perhaps," Finch answered. "But normal channels are for people who don't know how to hack, anyhow."

"Oh. Of course."

"It will be more or less legal," he assured her. "Official, anyhow, as far as anyone will ever be able to tell."

"Okay."

"I suppose we need some sort of officiant," he mused. "I might know someone. I'll have to see if she's available." He considered. "I'm sorry, if you wanted something larger and more formal, I could certainly …"

"I'm really not the great white wedding type," Christine said firmly.

"No. I suppose not."

"Unless you want …"

"No," Harold said quickly. "No." And then, "Though I wouldn't mind a cake. I'll call Becky in the morning."

"Becky."

"The caterer. She's a friend of Mr. Kostmayer's. And she's married to Scott McCall."

"That conductor that caught that diva when she fell into the pit? Now I'm intrigued."

Harold shifted a little, tucked the blanket around her, and told her the story of their meeting with Kostmayer, Baker, McCall, and the deadly soccer mom Lily Romanov. Though he was tempted, he left nothing out.

"It's a miracle either of you survived," Christine said when he finished.

"As is often the case, I'm afraid." He gave her a moment, but she didn't comment further. "What do you want me to wear tomorrow?"

"The black suit," Christine answered immediately, "and the gold-patterned waistcoat."

"Ahhh." That was one of Finch's favorites, too.

"Unless you want to wear something else. It's up to you."

"No, that's fine."

"What do you want me to wear?"

"Anything you like. Your gold dress is back from the cleaners."

"Ehh. It has Logan Pierce cooties." She shrugged. "I'll think of something."

"If I'm rushing this …" Finch began.

"We've waited long enough," Christine answered firmly. She twisted around to kiss him.

"I don't imagine we have any chance of getting away for a honeymoon."

"I thought this was the honeymoon."

Finch chuckled. "Well, perhaps. But if we could manage to sneak away for one night … well. I'll see what I can arrange."

"Nothing extravagant," Christine said firmly. "You already built me a library."

He nodded. "As you wish."

It was barely eight at night. Finch checked his phone, but there were still, miraculously, no notifications from the Machine. He hoped against hope that the silence would hold for another day.

Then, partly because there were no guarantees, he took his fiancée back to bed.

Reese was a little later than he'd planned to be getting to the library, partly because it was had sleeted before dawn and the streets were just slick enough to slow traffic down, but mostly because he'd lingered forever in the book store, trying to decide what favorite book he should take to the library party. He didn't really have a particular favorite himself. He finally settled on a copy of Sun Tzu's _The Art of War._ It felt predictable, but every library did need a copy, in his opinion, and this particular edition was beautifully illustrated.

Then, on his way to the check out, he detoured down a row to avoid a toddler in melt-down mode and caught sight of a title he half-remembered. _Mrs. Mike_ had been one of his mother's favorites. It was in the Young Adult section, but she had read it multiple times, and several times to him. It was a story about a young woman who had married a Mountie and gone to live with him at his remote post. Though young Johnny had not had the vocabulary then, Mrs. Mike was undoubtedly a bad-ass, in the nicest possible way. He kept the Sun Tzu – maybe a stocking stuffer – and grabbed the old favorite.

When he got to the library, Harold was at his desk, talking on his phone. He held up one finger, the international symbol for _just a minute_ , but the call went on, with Finch mostly listening and then saying, "Yes, thank you, that would be fine …" and so on. The board was blessedly empty, and the computer screens were dark. Reese checked that Smokey had fresh food and water and straightened up the tiny kitchen while Finch finished his call.

"Finally!" Harold finally said, clicking off his phone. "Mr. Reese, thank you for coming. I could have met you somewhere closer to your home."

"We don't have a Number," Reese observed.

"No. At least, not yet." Harold knocked his knuckled against the desk subtly. "There is, um … something else I need to speak to you about."

"Okay." Reese sat down in one of the straight-backed chairs and stretched his legs out in front of him. "Shoot."

"Miss Fitzgerald … that is, Christine …"

"How's she like the library?"

"She likes it very much. She sends her thanks for your assistance with the project."

Reese nodded. "Good. I bet she's jet-lagged. That's a big time change. Take a couple of days to re-adjust."

"Yes. But what I wanted to …"

"I bet the kittens are glad to have her home. Not that you didn't take good care of them, Finch, but you're not the kind to really spoil them like she does."

"Yes, quite. But …"

"Julie must be so glad all that construction is done. She was great sport about it, but she's got to be ready for some peace and quiet right about now."

Finch folded his hands in front of his chest and stared at him.

"I'm sorry, Finch. Were you trying to say something?"

"It will wait until you're finished," Harold said tersely.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt."

"Are you finished?"

"All done."

"Are you quite sure?"

Reese squinted, concentrating. "Yep, all done. Go ahead."

Finch sighed. "Very well. Christine has … that is, I have …"

He paused again, clearly waiting for John to interrupt. Reese folded his own hands politely and waited.

"I have asked Miss Fitzgerald to marry me," Harold finally managed to say.

"Uh-huh."

"You're not surprised?"

Reese raised an eyebrow. "You built her a library, Finch."

"That in no way constitutes a proposal of marriage."

"Maybe not for normal people. But people like you, and her? Yeah, it does."

"So I needn't bother with the traditional diamond then?" Finch winced. "I forgot to ask about rings."

"I assume she said yes."

"She did, yes. Say yes, that is."

Reese pulled his legs under him and sat up straight. "Congratulations, Harold."

"Thank you." Harold frowned. "There is still a part of me that regrets allowing her to risk her life and her freedom by remaining involved with me …"

"She's a grown woman, Finch."

"A woman with a life-long history of self-sacrifice." Finch shook his head. "I am aware that this decision adds an additional burden for you, from a security standpoint."

"I was watching out for her anyhow. Now you'll both be in one place."

"If we're compromised …"

"This is a good cover, Finch. Highly-paid insurance broker with a pretty wife who works for a well-funded non-profit."

"I _hate_ making her a part of my cover. And Will and Julie, too. This isn't … what I want for them."

"Finch." John leaned forward. "What's the real problem?"

Harold looked at his blank computer screens for a long moment before he turned back. "I know that your relationship with Miss Fitzgerald is very important to you – and to her. I don't want to do anything that would interfere with that relationship."

Reese nodded and waited.

"If anything happens – if I should fall, Mr. Reese …"

"I'll take care of them, Harold."

Finch stopped. "I know, Mr. Reese. John. I just … needed to hear that out loud."

"Now you have." Reese spread his hands. "Have you set a date?"

"Ah. As to that." Finch dropped his hand onto a slender box that rested on the desk. "I wanted to ask … if you'd be willing to stand with us at the ceremony today."

"At the … wait, _today_?"

"After the dinner. We aren't telling the rest of the guests, but Christine and I both thought you should know. In case you had objections."

John sat back. "If I had objections, you'd call it off?"

Finch met his gaze squarely. "We would at least postpone it until we could reach some agreement."

"It's that important to you."

"To both of us. Yes."

Reese considered for as long as he could hold a straight face. "If I had objections, Harold, I would have said so when you started building the library." Then he dissolved into a wry grin. "And it's about damn time."

His partner closed his eyes briefly, the Finch equivalent of sagging in relief. Then he straightened and stood up. "In that case, I wonder if you'd consent to wear this." He handed John the box.

Inside was a lovely pale gold tie, undoubtedly pure silk. "Just so I'm clear what I'm agreeing to, Finch – you want me to wear this _with_ my suit, right? Not just this?"

"Well, if you insist on preserving your modesty, I suppose we can't dissuade you," Harold deadpanned.

It caught Reese off-guard, and he felt his cheeks get warm. "And you'll be fully dressed, too?"

"That is our intention, yes."

"Alright then. What else do you need me to do? Is there some kind of rehearsal?"

"No, we'll improvise."

"You and Christine are going to improvise your wedding."

"We are capable of spontaneous action, Mr. Reese."

"Oh, I know you're _capable_. I also know you don't like it, either of you."

Finch considered. "Under normal circumstances you would be completely correct. In this case, however, I think our site are mutually set past the actual ceremony."

"To the …" Reese caught himself before the word _honeymoon_ came out, because he was afraid Finch would agree with him, "… happily ever after?"

"As much as there can be."

Reese picked up the tie. It was absurdly smooth. "What do you need me to do?"

"I have a few details to arrange, but I believe everything is basically in hand. You might check with Christine."

"I'll give her a call."

"Thank you, Mr. Reese."

John stood up. "See you tonight then."

"Yes." Finch was already reaching for his phone again.

Dismissed, and yet deeply touched, Reese left the library.

"You gotta see this," Taylor said, trotting ahead through the open double doors.

Joss Carter followed more slowly. She was still a little startled by the way the front door had opened in front of them. "Computer," her son had explained.

"Of course."

She was startled again when John Reese came out of one of the bedrooms. He was wearing his traditional black suit, and he had added a gold silk tie. "I thought this was supposed to be informal," Joss protested. She had worn the elegant red cashmere sweater Finch had given her the year before, with jeans. Taylor was even more casual in his CIREI hoodie.

Reese hesitated, his hand on the tie. "You're right. Wait right there." He slipped his tie loose and stepped back into the darkened bedroom. When he emerged, he had shed both tie and jacket. "Much better."

"No Bear?"

"In the guest room, with the kittens. He was begging for scraps in the kitchen."

"I don't blame him. It smells good in here."

"The lady who makes those cinnamon rolls? She's cooking."

Joss let him usher her into the new library. It was spectacular. "Wow," she said. "Wow, wow, wow." The long center table was set with silver and crystal, fresh flowers and tall slender candles. The rest of the room, while mostly empty, was all old wood and chandeliers.

"Right?" Scotty said. She was, Joss was happy to note, wearing jeans and a white shirt. "I have no idea how they got this all done in three weeks."

"Much of it was pre-constructed," Finch explained. He was wearing a suit, of course, black with a gold-patterned vest, but Joss had expected that from him. She got the feeling Finch did _casual_ only very reluctantly. "We removed it from the old library and transplanted it here. It was a bit like putting a puzzle together, but in the end I think it turned out well."

"Really well," Joss assured him. She handed Christine a book wrapped in pink tissue paper, with a slender ribbon. "It was really hard, picking a favorite book. So I went with my favorite for the moment."

The younger woman glanced at Finch. "Can I open this now?"

"As you wish. Detective, may I take your coat?"

She surrendered her jacket and strolled around the library.

"I brought you a book, too," Taylor said, presenting his gift. "It's kinda, um, young, but it's really good."

"Thank you."

Reese glided up next to her. "Wine?"

"Wine would be lovely." She followed him over to the window, where a high table had been set up as a bar. He poured her a glass of very good red, and a Coke for Taylor. "Was this part of your training?" she teased.

"Army Ranger basic training, yes Ma'am," he replied smartly.

"I haven't heard of this book, Detective," Finch said. He and Scotty were leaning together over the flyleaf of her gift as they crossed the room. "It looks very interesting."

"I picked it up because it looked old, but it was written in 2012." _The Orchardist_ had a faded ivory dustcover and the ragged page edges of a much older book. "I almost put it down when I discovered the author didn't use quotation marks, but it works, somehow."

"What's it about?" Reese asked as he poured another glass of wine.

Joss smiled. "It's about a man who experiences great tragedy and decides to live the rest of his life alone. Until people turn up who need his help, so he has to learn to love them."

"Ahhhh." Scotty closed the book and hugged it tight. "Top of the to-be-read pile."

"And then mine," Finch claimed quickly.

Fusco arrived then, with Rhonda and Lee. "Daaaaaamn," Fusco said.

"This is crazy!" Lee agreed.

Finch fussed with coats and Reese with beverages, and Scotty unwrapped her books at another side table. Taylor had brought _The Diviners_ , a young adult novel set in the '20s. Carter had read it at his urging and liked it very much. Lee had chosen _The Outsiders_ , which they all agreed that every library needed. Rhonda had gone with Malcolm Gladwell's _Blink_ , while Fusco proudly presented a collection of Hunter Thompson's books. "Figured you needed a little counter-culture," he said. He waved around the room. "Looks like I was right."

A petite brown-eyed woman in a chef's coat came in with a tray of tiny appetizers, brie baked in puff pastry, sugared purple grapes, shrimp stuffed with crab, mushrooms stuffed with Swiss. Joss would have said she wasn't hungry, but the delicious smells coming from the kitchen had ramped up her appetite. Everyone else seemed to feel the same way except, she noted, Harold and Scotty. They weren't precisely nervous, Joss thought, but Finch was fussy – fussier than usual – and Christine seemed intently focused on her new books.

That, Carter reflected, might not be unusual at all.

"What's _Mrs. Mike_ about?" she asked John as she browsed through the pile.

"It was one of my mom's favorites," he told her. "It's about this young woman who marries a Mountie and lives in the wilderness with him and discovers her inner badass."

"Sounds interesting."

"Yeah. Probably where I got imprinted on women who could take care of themselves." Joss would have sworn he twinkled at her.

The Ingrams came up. Julie was very pregnant, though she still moved well. "I'm jealous," Joss told her honestly. "I was waddling like a duck at this point."

"I am ready to be done being pregnant," Julie admitted.

"Three more days," Will countered. "Then we're past the 37-week window and you can go any time."

"I was sure there wouldn't be small Ingrams until after Christmas," Harold said. "This time last year."

"That could still happen," Scotty said. "She'd only be two weeks overdue."

"I am _not_ going to be pregnant for five more weeks," Julie announced firmly.

"I do remember Will being rather late," Finch teased. "And I believe his father was as well."

Julie growled at him.

They had brought three books – a coffee-table photo book of windmills around the world, a collection of Native American folktales, and, from Baby Ingram, a hard-bound collection of Little Golden Books.

The minute the last of the hors d'oeuvres were gone, a slim blond man dressed all in black came in balancing a silver tray covered with soup bowls, followed by a tall Hispanic woman, similarly dressed, with a smaller tray.

"Please," Finch said, "sit wherever you like." Joss noted, though, that he held the seat at the head of the table for Scotty, and then seated himself at the foot.

She wondered if they realized how much their body language gave away.

Not that there was much of a secret any more. He'd built her a library.

The meal started with bright thin tomato basil soup, with a side of cheese croutons.

"Uh, don't bring a bowl for him," Fusco told the waiter, gesturing to his son. "He doesn't like tomatoes."

"Of course, sir," the blond said smoothly. He put of what looked like chicken noodle in front of the boy. It was the only bowl on the tray that wasn't tomato.

"Oh. Thanks."

After the soup there were salads with five different greens with walnuts and cranberries - but no nuts for Lionel or Julie, and no cranberries for Taylor. Joss shook her head wryly. She knew Finch prided himself on knowing exactly everything about everybody, but now he was just showing off.

The dinner continued with prime rib, garlic mashed potatoes, asparagus (but green beans for some) and glazed carrots (but beets for Joss), and dinner rolls fluffier than air with honey butter. The conversation around the table was lively and varied – from the CIREI trip to books, library construction to newborn care, and of course criminal activity.

"Grandma's going to have to step up her Thanksgiving game to top this," Taylor said.

"I don't think anybody can top this," Joss answered.

"We could probably do this again next week," John suggested, "but with turkey, if you want."

The boys got to talking about the latest movies, and Rhonda commented that Lionel was going to take her to the midnight premier of the latest _Hunger Games_ movie. "I know they're kids' movies, really," she said, "but I really love them."

"Midnight movie on a Sunday," Fusco grumbled lightly. "Ought to make work Monday a real pip. But hey, least I can do for all the times I have to cancel on you."

"Midnight on Sunday," Scotty said, "is tonight."

"No, it's Sunday night …" Fusco stopped. "Ah, crap. It's _tonight_ at midnight." He and Rhonda both looked at Lee. "Well, maybe I can get another ticket …"

"We could go tomorrow," Rhonda offered, "during the day."

"I can stay home alone!" Lee protested. "I'm not a baby. Jeez."

Fusco shook his head. "We can catch the movie later …"

"I can go stay with him," Taylor offered. "Or Lee can come to our place. Right, Mom?"

"I don't need a babysitter," Lee said.

"No, but we can hang," Taylor said. "The Steam sale starts at midnight. We'll see what they got goin' on."

"You sure you don't mind?" Rhonda asked.

"Okay with you, Mom?"

"Sure," Carter agreed. "Just don't be downloading anything inappropriate."

"I know."

"Great," Fusco said. "I'll get them brunch whenever they get up in the morning, drop Taylor home around noon?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Have you read the books?" Scotty asked. "The _Hunger Games_ books? They're pretty good."

Then the whole group was off on a new subject.

The little chef and her assistants were quietly excellent at getting the table cleared as the diners finished. "I'm sure there's dessert," Will Ingram said. "But I'm not sure I can face it yet. That was all delicious."

Finch stood up. He had eaten too much, too. It felt good to straighten up. "Well, perhaps we should wait a few minutes."

Then, as if on que, Christine jumped, then snuck a glance at her phone under the table. She nodded to him and stood up. "They're here," she said. "Give me two minutes. John, can I borrow you?"

Harold couldn't begin to imagine what she needed John for. But the two of them went into the bedroom and closed the door. He continued to the front door and let their final guests in. "Dr. Enright," he said warmly, "Ms. Harris. Thank you so much for coming."

"Glad to be here," Amy answered warmly. "And honored."

"Come in, come in. I … haven't told the others yet."

"Nothing like leaving it to the last minute," Maddy Enright teased.

Finch frowned at the still-closed bedroom door and showed the ladies in to the library. He hung their coats while they admired the library, then introduced them to the others. There were obviously questions about their arrival, but everyone was too polite to ask.

 _Where was Christine? What was she doing, and why was it taking so long? Was John talking her into going through with the ceremony – or talking her out of it?_ He had felt fairly calm through dinner, but suddenly he was wracked with anxiety.

The waiter wheeled in a cart with three large silver carafes, each neatly labeled as coffee, decaf and hot water. There were tea bags and fresh lemon slices, cream and sugar, cups and saucers. He parked it near the door. The waitress followed with a second card. On this was a stainless tree, of sorts. Each branch had a small ring at its end, and each ring held a small cupcake. There were six dozen little treats, in a variety of flavors with different colored frostings, but each was topped with a delicate red candy rose. The cart also held dessert plates and napkins.

Becky Baker came to the doorway and Finch slipped over to her. "We've left a tote in the kitchen," she said. "Just drop all the dishes in there and don't worry about them. I'll send someone over around noon to clean up and pick up the equipment."

"Everything was beyond wonderful," Finch told her. "I cannot thank you enough."

She studied him, and though her eyes were brown, they reminded him of Christine's uncannily insightful gaze. "I am _more_ than happy to have been able to repay you in a small way."

"There's no need …"

"Shhh," she advised. Then she nodded. "She's here."

Finch turned. Christine had come out of the bedroom. She had changed into a simple slip dress, ivory lace over pale gold silk, long-sleeved and tea-length. She had added the antique black diamond earrings. She looked elegant and reserved and quite simply stunning.

He had no idea where she'd gotten the dress, or when she'd had time. He walked to her and took her hands. "You are beautiful," he murmured, and kissed her cheek.

Only then, up close, did he realize that there were small gold birds embroidered across the ivory lace. It was too perfect. He bit the inside of his lip and blinked quickly.

"Like it?" she teased in a whisper.

"I love it."

Reese was behind her, wearing his jacket and gold tie again. "Did you tell them yet?"

"No."

They went back to the library together. The other guests were gathered around the fancy cupcake tree, admiring it. "It almost looks like a wedding cake," Lee Fusco said.

"About that," Reese grinned.

Finch kept hold of Christine's hand, fully aware of the knowing glances and surprised smiles. "A brief intermission, of sorts, before we enjoy our dessert," he said. He glanced at Christine. Her cheeks were bright pink; she wasn't crazy about being the center of attention any more than he was. But she squeezed his hand and he continued.

"As you've perhaps guessed," Harold said, "there's been a rather major – shift, I suppose – _change_ – in my relationship with Miss … with Christine."

"We noticed," Fusco said drily.

"Yesterday I asked Christine if she would be my wife, and happily, she agreed."

There was a brief round of happy noise and congratulations. "So this is an engagement dinner," Will said.

"It was," Harold confirmed.

Joss Carter looked pointedly at the cupcake tree. "I'm guessing you've already set a date."

"Well," Christine answered, her cheeks still bright, "since you're all here anyhow … and we have this fantastic cake …"

"Tonight?" Fusco guessed. "You're getting married _tonight_?"

"If you will indulge us," Harold answered. He gestured. "I think most of you have already met our friend Dr. Enright. Her wife Amy, I am happy to say, is a licensed officiant. And she had graciously agreed to marry us. Tonight."

There was another ripple of noise and surprise, but no one objected.

Carter pointed at John. "Which is why he has a tie one, and the rest of us are in jeans."

"We didn't want anyone to fuss," Christine said. "Only to be with us and enjoy a meal and celebrate."

Dr. Enright drew a white scarf out of her bag. She draped it around her wife's neck, then kissed her on each cheek. Amy moved over to the window and gestured for the others to join her there. "Please," she said, "join hands in a circle for a moment." She took Harold's hand with her left hand, Christine's with her right. " _We are all here today to see Harold and Christine join hands and be bound together by their love, now and forever._ We'll open with a prayer."

When the others had formed a slightly misshapen but unbroken circle, Amy bowed her head. "Almighty One, however we perceive You, be with us here tonight. Bless this gathering and those who are together for this joyful occasion. Let each of us celebrate the bonds of friendship and love that weave us into a family here, as we also celebrate this joining in marriage. Strengthen and protect us separately and together as we strive to improve Your creation. And, we ask You, sanctify this ceremony and bless this couple as they begin their new life together. Amen."

"Amen," several of the gathered answered.

Amy turned him and Christine to face her, then released their hands and rearranged the group quickly and almost wordlessly into a semi-circle around them. Finch fussed with his cuffs and his tie, very aware of being the center of attention again. He looked at Christine and could tell she was thinking the same thing. _Thank heaven we decided to keep this small._

"Christine," Amy said as she resumed her place, "do you come here freely, of your own will, and without hesitation or encumbrance, to be joined in marriage to Harold?"

"I do."

The young woman turned to Harold. "Harold, do you come here freely, of your own will, and without hesitation or encumbrance, to be joined in marriage to Christine?"

"I do." His voice came out choked; he cleared his throat and repeated, "I do."

Amy nodded encouragingly. "Friends and family here gathered, Christine and Harold have come before this company to be joined in marriage. Does anyone here object?"

Finch did not look over his shoulder, but he had the impression that Fusco moved his hand warningly to his son's shoulder. The boy made a strangled little noise but did not speak.

The young woman held the moment, then nodded again. "Join your right hands, then, and prepare your hearts to also be joined."

He took Christine's hand in his, and felt relief flow through their touch. Never mind all the friendly eyes on them, never mind the uncomfortable attention. This was what he had wanted. A few more minutes and she would be officially his wife. It was a technicality. It changed nothing. And yet, it was deeply important to him.

 _I missed this. I was nearly married and I missed it. But not this time._

He put Grace Hendricks very firmly from his mind.

"John," Amy said, "I understand you will be tying the knot of joining."

Reese took an uneasy two steps forward. "I … will? I didn't …"

Harold caught his eye and glanced very deliberately at his gold silk tie.

"Ohhh." John stepped closer, carefully undid his tie and slipped it off. "Right."

"Lionel," Amy gestured, "if you will stand at Christine side, and Joss, at Harold's side?"

The detectives moved up to flank John, though they were clearly bewildered.

She motioned John closer and, without taking the fabric from his hands, draped the center fold of the tie over their joined hands. She put John's hand over their joined hands, to hold the tie in place. "Christine, do you consent to be joined in marriage to Harold, to be his spouse and his helpmate, to love and to keep him, so long as you both shall live?"

Because he held her hand, Harold felt the tiny flinch, the tightening, at those last words. He knew John felt it, too. But Christine's eyes held his, bright and a bit glassy. "I do."

Amy took one end of the tie and handed it to Fusco, guided him as he wrapped it over and then underneath Christine's wrist and drew it up from the far side.

"Harold," Amy continued, "do you consent to be joined in marriage to Christine, to be her spouse and her helpmate, to love and to keep her, so long as you both shall live?"

He tightened his grip on her hand. "I do."

Amy gestured for Joss to repeat the looping process with the other end of the tie, but this time the other direction, so that her end came up on front of their joined hands. Harold felt the smooth fabric draw tight around his wrist, but he was still free to move. He did not. Amy held both ends up to John. "As they have consented to be joined, please tie these ends as a symbol of their joining."

John took the two ends. "Any particular knot?" Reese asked, with a crooked grin.

"Anything that will hold for fifty or sixty years," Amy smiled back.

Reese proceeded to tie an unnecessarily elaborate knot, and he took his time doing it.

Finally, quietly, Joss Carter said, "I'm pretty sure she meant that metaphorically, John."

He looked up, feigning surprise. "Oh. Then I probably overdid it."

There were chuckles all around. "I'll have to be clearer about that in the future," Amy smiled. "In any case – as they have consented to be joined, and as their hands and lives have been joined here in the presence of these witnesses and with the invited blessing of the Holiness, it is my distinct honor, and pleasure, to pronounce that Christine and Harold are now wed." She nodded, and Reese took a step back. "Let them seal their new bond with a kiss."

Harold leaned in, and so did Christine. They met in the middle, over the elaborate gold knot, and kissed for the first time in front of other people.

It was quite breathtaking.

It was as if some spell broke then – which, Harold reflected, was a pretty apt description. Everyone was talking, patting them, shaking their joined hands awkwardly. Christine turned so that she was half in front of him. Blessedly the tie was loose enough that they could pivot their hands and face the same direction. It made moving much easier; he simply curled his left arm around Christine's waist and guided her.

Amy had told them they could undo the binding immediately after the ceremony if they wanted to. But Harold found immediately that he liked the symbolism of it all – both of being joined to Christine and of learned to navigate with that new connection.

"There's champagne," Will announced. He got the tray of glasses that no one had seen arrive and passed them around. There were two whose contents were slightly darker in color. Fusco picked up one and sniffed it, then took the other and gave it to his son. "Ginger ale," he pronounced quietly.

"Joss," John said, "a toast?"

"Me?"

"Yeah," Fusco said. "He's too tired out from that knot-tying demonstration."

Joss raised her glass, then paused to consider. "To Harold and Christine," she offered. "May all your surprises be as lovely as the one you sprang on us today, and may your joys be as many as the books this library will soon hold."

"Here, here!"

Finch glanced at his watch as everyone sipped. "Our car will be here in fifteen minutes," he murmured in Christine's ear. They had both packed small overnight bags and taken them down to the security desk earlier. He had spent most of the day arranging their destination, and he had not told Christine where they were going, only that it would be inside the city limits.

"Perfect." She seemed relaxed in his arm, but also weary. That reflected exactly how Finch felt. "Let's have cake."

They abandoned their glasses and maneuvered over to the cupcake tree. Harold held the plate while Christine selected four different cupcakes. Back at the table, it immediately became obvious that the only way to manage with their right hands still bound together was for Christine to sit on his lap. Again Finch felt vaguely uncomfortable showing that much affection in public. But these were their friends, he reminded himself. Their family. He was still a very private person, but he had invited them to share this occasion – and he was, in the end, glad.

"I'll bring you some coffee," Rhonda answered.

"Coffee for the bride," Will countered. "Green tea, two sugars, right?"

"Please."

"Can I have three?" Lee asked, holding his own cupcake plate.

"You can have as many as you want," Christine assured him.

He took four.

"So … how long has this been in the works?" Taylor asked. "Did you just like, get up this morning and decide it was a good day to get married or something?"

"Yesterday," Finch told him.

Julie shook her head. "You decided before you started building this library."

"I did not realize," Harold protested, "that the construction of a library would constitute a marriage proposal."

"I did," Fusco said. "Minute I heard about it."

"Me, too," Carter agreed.

"I _would_ have," Will complained, "if anybody had told me about it."

"We knew you couldn't keep it a secret," John told him.

"I can too."

"You can't," his wife assured him.

" _I_ would have known," Amy said, "and I barely know you."

"Well I think it's really cool," Taylor said. "And it's _you_. Both of you."

Lee put down his last cupcake. "Are we still going to be allowed to game here?"

"Over there." Christine gestured with her right hand, making Harold join her.

"How long are you going to stay tied up?" he asked.

"Until we leave the reception," Harold told him. "Which is actually right about … now." He helped Christine to her feet and stood. "Please, stay as long as you like, enjoy the dessert, have more coffee. And there are carry-out boxes by the front door. Please take as many as you like."

"Wait, there're left-overs?" Taylor said happily.

"There are," Christine assured him. "Midnight snacks, for you."

"Yeah!" He and Lee shared a high-five.

"There's better be an after-movie box for me and Rhonda when we get home," Fusco warned.

Finch turned to Dr. Enright and her wife. "I hope you will take some home, at least. I'm sorry you couldn't join us for dinner."

"Working late, professional hazard," Maddy said. "But we'd be delighted to take some home. It smells great."

"It was."

Finch's phone buzzed in his pocket. "That's our car," he said. "Thank you all for celebrating with us tonight. For being here. For your friendship. Thank you."

There was a brief wave of hugging and cheek-kissing, all of it made profoundly more awkward by the fact that his hand was still tied to Christine's. But at least she couldn't be pulled away from him.

 _Ever._

Only John wasn't there to tell them good-bye. When they finally slipped out, they found him waiting for them, alone, by the front door. He was holding their coats.

Christine hugged him as tightly as she could manage. "Thank you."

"Thank you for letting me be a part of this." He put one hand on Harold's shoulder. "I am so happy for you. For both of you."

"Thank you, John. You don't need to worry about any clean-up …"

Reese waved a hand. "I'll just tidy up."

"And feed …" Christine began.

"The cats. I know. You really think they'll let me forget?" He draped her coat over her shoulders, and then Harold's over his. "This driver's somebody you know?"

"Skyyd is sending Mr. Calhoun."

"Good."

"If you need to reach us …"

"Harold. I am not going to call you tonight. If anything comes up I will handle it."

"John …"

"I don't think," Christine ventured, "that there's any point in arguing with him."

Reluctantly, Finch agreed. "Thank you, John."

From the library there was a clatter and then laughter. John looked over his shoulder, then back. "You should go. Whatever it is, I'll take care of it."

"Good night, John."

Harold shifted his grip on Christine's hand, pulled her coat tighter around her, and led her out of the apartment.

Julie got understandably tired shortly after the bride and groom departed. She and Will went back down to their own apartment. Maddy Enright and Amy Harris left shortly afterward. Joss made sure they took four prime rib dinners, eight cupcakes, and a bottle of very good wine with them. Fusco, Rhonda and the boys helped gather up the dishes before they left a while later, with all but four of the remaining cupcakes and eight meals.

"How much extra food did that chef _bring_?" Rhonda asked, amazed.

"Enough for plenty of leftovers," Reese answered. "I'm not going to complain."

"Me, either," Fusco agreed. "Here, Lee, carry this."

When they were gone, Joss carried the four remaining boxes to the refrigerator. There was a fat package wrapped in butcher paper there. She opened it curiously. "She thinks of everything."

"Becky? Yeah, she does." Reese looked over her shoulder at the meaty bone in the paper. "Wrap that up until I make Bear go outside. He won't want to leave it once he sees it."

She re-wrapped the paper and put it back in the fridge. "Her name's Becky?"

"Becky Baker. She owns O'Phelan's place. They make an amazing breakfast. And those cinnamon rolls."

"Those are soooo good." Joss patted her hip. "I'm kinda sorry I know where to get them now."

"Can you stay a few minutes?" Reese asked. "I have something to show you, but I need to take the dog out."

"I'm in no hurry," Joss answered. She went back to the library and poured herself half a glass of wine while John let the dog out of the spare bedroom. After a moment two half-grown black cats walked into the library. "Hello there," she said.

One of the kittens froze, then retreated from the room. The other came and rubbed against her ankles.

"I'm not really one for cats," Joss said. She put down her wine and picked up the little cat. "But you are a cute little thing, aren't you?"

The cat licked her nose and began to purr.

"This is sweet," Christine said, lifting their silk-bound hands as soon as the car was moving, "but it's got to go."

"Agreed," Harold said.

They worked together with their left hands to undo John's prodigious knot. They were half-way to Brooklyn before they succeeded in freeing themselves. Christine draped the gold tie around her neck. "Are you going to tell me where we're going?"

"Soon," he promised. He kissed his wife – _his wife_ , he thought again, giddily.

She settled more comfortably in his arms. "That was nice."

"The kiss or the wedding?"

"Both."

"Yes." He kissed her one more time. "But I am a bit … over-socialized just now."

"Agreed. You want me to go sit on the other side?"

Harold tightened his arms around her. "No. Your company does not exhaust me." Then. "Unless you want some space. I would understand."

"I have all the space I need." She looked out the window for a moment. "I can't believe we did this."

He tugged gently at the tie she wore. "We most assuredly did this. Where in the world did you find this dress so quickly?"

"Found it online," she answered, "at a thrift shop. John went and picked it up for me."

"It's perfect."

"I thought so."

They were quiet for a time. Then the car turned onto a long-familiar street. "Do you remember," Harold asked, "in Nathan's journal, when he wrote about our first apartment here in New York?"

"The place where he kept cracking his head on the stairs?"

"That's the one. It was in the attic of a building over a tiny independent bookstore."

"Run by a sweet old Polish lady who kept trying to fix him up with her granddaughter." Christine sat up and looked at him. "Is it still there?"

The car slid into a parking space at the curb. "There." Harold smiled and pointed at the building.

He got out of the car and helped her out. The lights were on inside Zilka Books, but the sign in the door had been turned to "Closed". Harold patted his pocket for the key. The driver got their overnight bags from the trunk, and also an unexpected small picnic basket. "What's this?" he asked.

"Midnight snack," Calhoun reported. "Want me to bring it in for you?"

"No, we'll manage. Thank you."

He waited until they were inside, then drove away.

Finch watched Christine look over the crowded, disorganized book shop. She had an expression of absolute delight and surprise. For a moment it was bittersweet. After so many surprises, Harold felt like he had no more in store. She knew all about him. Everything. Nothing left for her to discover. Nothing left for him to share.

Except, of course, their future.

"Where's the owner?" she asked.

"Gone for the night," Finch answered. "On a delightful adventure of her own, of course."

"Of course." She looked around again. "This is brilliant."

He led her to the back of the shop, and then up the three flights of narrow stairs to the attic. It had been more than ten years since he'd been to the little apartment, but it seemed like nothing had changed. The same steps creaked. The wallpaper had a floral pattern long since faded to beige even then, and it had hardly faded more. The plain steel handrail was still loose from the center brace.

But his footsteps were no longer quick and even. He was not a runner any more. He did not sprint up those narrow stairs.

And Christine's footsteps were light and careful, far different from Nathan's heavy confident strides.

For one moment it felt like a mistake. _I should have left this in the past._

Then, _but I give her my past and my future this day_. His heart settled in his chest. _Oh, Nathan, if you only knew._

Christine reached the top landing and stopped. Finch balanced one of the bags on the top step and grappled the key out of his pocket. "Here. Go ahead." There was not room on the tiny landing for him to get past her and the picnic basket she carried anyhow.

She struggled with the lock, and Finch chuckled, remembering. "Lift the knob just a little while you turn the key." That worked. "And there's a step up," he added.

Christine opened the door and took the one step up into the tiny apartment. Her head barely cleared the overhead beam just inside the door; it was the same beam Nathan had bashed his skull on at least ten times.

The tiny sitting room had the same two old chairs, the same two rickety tables where they had set up their early computers. He remembered how hot the room got; they had left the little dormer window open nearly all the time, and in the winter the cold air would swirl around their feet while they worked in t-shirts.

Beyond that a hallway opened to a tiny galley kitchen on the left and an equally tiny bathroom with a stand-up shower on the right. Past that was the bedroom. When he had lived there with Nathan they had had twin beds with a small nightstand between them. But Harold had arranged for those ancient beds to be removed that morning, and for one of those new beds in a box to be delivered and set up.

At the foot of the bed were two small dressers at each side of another dormer window. A painted radiator creaked exactly as he remembered. There were two lamps. There was no other furniture.

"Behold," Harold said, "the glamorous beginnings of the empire that is IFT."

"This is unbelievable," Christine said.

It occurred to Finch, too late, that while he thought the tiny apartment quaint, viewed it with ironic nostalgia, his new bride had actually grown up in quarters as cramped and low as this – or worse. That she might easily misinterpret the message of his gift. "Now that you've seen it," he suggested, "we could move on to a more luxurious location for the night."

She looked at him. "Oh."

"Or we can stay."

"Which would you prefer?" Her voice was perfectly neutral.

"If we stay," Finch mused, "we could raid the shelves of the book store. I told Mrs. Zilka we'd leave her a list of whatever we selected and I'd settle up with her."

Christine's eyes glittered. "You always know what I like."

"We could browse the books and go to a five-star, too."

"I want to stay."

Harold grinned. "Good." He moved past her, not easily, and put the bags on the nearest dresser. "Let's go shopping."

When the animals had been tended to, and Bear was under the library table happily gnawing his bone, Reese gestured Joss to the space between the first and second row of shelves that stuck out from the back wall of the library.

"If you're taking me into the stacks to show me your knot-tying merit badge, I'll just take your word for it," she teased.

"Yes, but you haven't seen how I earned my Scooby-Doo merit badge yet." He crouched a little and ran his hand along the side of the third shelf from the floor. "Give me your hand."

Cautiously, but already guessing what he was going to show her, Joss crowded in and let him guide her hand over the smooth wood.

"Feel that knot right there?" he asked.

She stretched her fingers until she felt the faint circle. "Got it."

"Press it three times, quickly."

The little space didn't move the first two times she pressed. But on the third she felt the spring click and the dot sank a quarter of an inch. It was absolutely silent.

Reese put his fingertips under the shelf and pulled gently, and the whole wall swung outward. Behind it there was a heavy steel door with no handle. But it slid to the side when John touched it.

"Camera activated?" Joss asked quietly.

"It knows who's authorized. You are, if you're alone."

She stepped past the door and into the secret lair. It was a narrow room, about six feet wide but the full depth of the library. To her right there was a built-in desk with a computer set-up. To her left both walls were lined with cupboards and drawers. Past that there was a simple wooden door. Straight ahead was a second steel door. Joss guessed that it opened somewhere in the laundry room. But with the construction of the library, the protruding shelves, it would be impossible to tell that the space was there.

Curious, she opened one of the cupboard. It was packed with neatly-labeled medical equipment. In the next was non-perishable food. Reese tapped the bottom drawer with his foot and it sprang out to reveal a small trundle bed. "Wash room down there," he said, indicating the door. "With a killer shower."

"You could hide here for days," Joss observed.

"If we needed to. So if we vanish, this might be a good place to look for us."

"Nice." She went and peeked into the bathroom. "But they could still burn the building down around you."

"If they knew we were here. But would _you_ want to be the pencil-pusher who green-lighted burning down a billionaire's home office?"

"The Ingrams don't have any idea what they're involved with, do they?"

Reese shook his head. "They're not involved, as far as we can manage. If we end up hiding here, it means things have gone completely to hell. We'll give ourselves up before we endanger them."

Joss leaned against the cupboard. "You've gotten a lot more comfortable about security."

"I suppose. Since that whole god mode thing, having the Machine right in my ear – I know what it can do now. How it can protect us. I used to think it was just us out here. Now it's like …" he shrugged.

"Like having a whole battalion backing you up," she suggested. "A really _smart_ battalion."

"Exactly. Doesn't mean we can't still get picked off. We probably will, sooner or later. But I'm at least confident that the Machine will limit the damage as much as possible. It'll protect everybody we care about. And it actually _can_. It has the capabilities."

"Is that why Finch decided he could get married now?"

John looked surprised. "I hadn't thought about it that way. But I suppose so. Christine wasn't going to let us shut her out anyhow. In for a dollar, might as well rob the bank."

"You know, as a cop I probably shouldn't be hearing talk like that."

"Just a figure of speech, _Detective_."

"Sure. Said the man with the Scooby-Doo room. I suppose you have secret tunnels, too."

"In the basement," Reese answered with a straight face.

"You're not kidding, are you?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "It leads to a subway tunnel. Walk along the side a few yards and you're at a station."

"Finch thinks of everything."

"That was Christine, actually. She wouldn't move out of Chaos until we found a place with replacement tunnels."

"Were there tunnels under Chaos?"

They went back into the library. "There still are. From the park, through the utility room. They lead down to this old speakeasy. I don't know what it was before that. Whole bunch of exits, over about a six block radius. A group of homeless guys live there, mostly vets." Reese pushed the shelf back into place. "That's where she took me the night Root drugged me. Gave me a space to move around without hurting anybody."

Joss sighed. "You know, I could use a real drink."

"Lucky for you, I know where to find that, too."

"When we first lived here," Finch said as they browsed through the stacks, "Mr. Zilka had only been dead for about a year. He had always taken care of the rentals upstairs. Mrs. Zilka had had two tenants in a row that she'd had to evict for not paying their rent. She was highly suspicious of Nathan and I. Fresh out of school, neither of us with a job. But Nathan was very persuasive, as always."

"Oooh, Dashiell Hammett." Christine added an anthology to the box near the front door. "His journal said you were just here for the winter."

"We'd sublet an apartment just off the MIT campus for the summer, and came here in the fall. It was all we could afford. Nathan's family had money, of course, but they weren't willing to fund his 'wild adventure' here in New York. They wanted him to come home."

"So he sold his car."

"Yes. And our text books, and pretty much everything else we had. He did go home for Christmas, and persuaded his father to buy him a good suit. That helped immensely when he went out to sell our first development." He paused to turn over an old hard-bound copy of _Goat Song_. "Have you read this?"

Christine popped around the end of the row. Finch noted that she'd slipped her shoes off. "Yes. But I'd read it again."

"Excellent."

He added it to the box. "In March, he sold a program for ten thousand dollars. We thought it was a fortune." He smiled gently. "I suppose it was. Nathan found another sublease and moved out. I stayed here for nearly another year." He examined an Asimov, put it back on the shelf. "By then we'd made a number of other sales, but I was still uneasy about committing myself to a Manhattan lease. And, Mrs. Zilka had been very kind. I must have borrowed half the books in this shop." He gestured to a curtained alcove. "The naughty romances are in there, if you're interested."

"Oooooh," Christine said. And then, "If I open that and there are three thousand copies of _Fifty Shades of Gray_ , I'm going to be heartbroken."

"As am I," Finch assured her.

"So you just kept paying the rent."

"Yes."

"For all these years."

"Yes."

"Wow."

Finch turned. He wasn't sure if her response was to his rent-paying or the contents of the romance alcove. She had a tattered paperback in her hands, open. "It saved her from having to deal with other tenants. And I did occasionally come back, either to leave things here or to …"

Christine looked up. "Get away from Nathan?"

"It was the last place he would have looked for me."

"He wasn't happy here? His journal's pretty sketchy on the topic." She put the book away.

"He was – restless. He was certain we were destined for much greater things, and he was impatient to get there."

"And you?"

Harold sighed. "Living in the dorms had been rather stressful for me. I enjoyed the period of solitude that followed. It's very quiet here. Very private."

She slid into his arms. "Thank you for sharing it with me."

He kissed her tenderly, at length. It felt absolutely write, to kiss her among the unruly stacks of books and the smell of old paper and leather. _Their habitat of choice_. "I keep having to remind myself that we are married now."

"It will take some getting used to."

"I still feel as if I rushed you."

"You didn't." She leaned back against the stack. "I think maybe you rushed yourself."

"Perhaps. But once I'd decided I wanted a life with you, I couldn't wait for it to begin." He glanced past her to the quiet city street in front of the shop. He couldn't see a camera from this angle, but he was certain if he stepped out the door he could spot on. "I'm sorry it won't be everything I want it to be for you."

"It will be what we make it," Christine said firmly, "for as long as we have."

He kissed her again, grateful.

They went back up the narrow stairs, stripped off their fine wedding clothes, and made love in the brand new bed under the eaves.

When Harold woke, Christine wasn't beside him in the bed. But he knew that she was close. He could feel her.

He sat up and put on his classes. His bride was sitting on the floor in front of the dormer windows, with her back to the radiator and her robe thrown over her legs. The light coming in the window seemed bright for as late as he knew it must be. "I didn't mean to wake you," she said.

"You didn't," he assured her.

"It's snowing."

"Ahhh." He slipped out of bed and wrapped his own robe around him. Then he peeled the comforter off the bed and draped it over Christine. "Are you hungry?"

"Oh. Now that you mention it, I am."

"Stay there." He went to the tiny kitchen and got the picnic basket. He slid down to sit beside her. The heat from the radiator was comforting on his back, though he knew getting up again would be painful.

They spread the comforter over their legs and unpacked the basket. There was a big Thermos of hot cider, a small loaf of thin-sliced pumpernickel bread, a wedge of brie sliced half-way through, a small container of smoked ham slices. There were fresh strawberries and blackberries and clementine slices.

There were cloth napkins, because Becky Baker thought of everything.

They ate in silence for a time, watching the snow fall on the city.

"Sitting here, while you were sleeping," Christine said, "it was like I could hear you, all those years ago. Hear the things you were dreaming about."

"I got them," Harold answered wistfully. "Everything Nathan and I planned, hoped for, we got. The money, the status – the board room full of awards. The good clothes, the nice apartments. Everything. And then … and then it was gone, in an instant."

She took his hand. "I'm sorry."

"Hubris, I suppose. After the Towers fell, we knew the people we were dealing with. I'd known them since I was a boy. But we thought that all our money, all our status, would protect us. We thought … there would be lawsuits. Injunctions, gag orders. Lawyers. We never thought they would just murder us." He smiled sadly. "We were naïve. We thought – I thought – I was the smartest man in the city. But I wasn't smarter than them."

"Killing people doesn't take intelligence," Christine argued. "It's practically just raw instinct."

"Perhaps." He stared at the falling snow for a moment. "I am not going to be morose about this, I promise. I lost everything, yes. And then I found you. Unexpected, undeserved, but here you are. My wife. My _wife_." He bent and kissed her hand.

"Harold …"

"Listen to me. If you want to hear my dreams, then hear my new dreams. I want a life with you. As rich, as joyful as we can make it. I want quiet evenings cuddled just like this, reading and eating too-rich food. I want to watch you build windmills all over the world. I want to code with you, I want to …" He paused. "But I want you to remember, to promise me you'll remember this, when I'm gone, whenever that is. When I lost Grace, I was certain that I would never find love again. I was _certain_. And then you were there, and I loved you. It took me a while to admit it, to recognize it. It took me a while to stop being afraid of it. But I love you. And that is nothing short of miraculous. Do you understand that?"

Christine nodded, with tears in her eyes.

"When I'm gone – "

"Don't …"

"When I'm gone, remember that. Remember that however impossible it seems, you _can_ love again. And I want you to. I don't want you to be alone. I want you to be happy. I want you to be in love again. Remember that."

"Harold."

She was crying now, and his own eyes were damp behind his glasses. He wiped her eyes gently with his fingertips. "Enough, then. No more talk of sad things. I plan to stay with you for as long as I can. And we are going to have a magnificent life together."

Outside, the snow turned to sleet and clattered against the window.

"Stop that," Christine protested. "Make it be pretty snow again."

Harold chuckled, held her close. In a few minutes, as she had commanded, it turned back to snow.

 _This_ , Joss Carter thought, _was the life_.

She was leaned back, relaxed, at one end of the long leather couch. She'd kicked her shoes off and her toes were warming in front of the fire. Bear was sleeping on the rug in front of her, his well-chewed bone resting between his front paws. The black cats were curled in matching balls in the center of the couch. She had a rock glass of very fine whiskey in her hands.

At the far end of the couch, John Reese was leaning back in an identical posture, except that his long legs put his feet much closer to the fire. He'd taken off his jacket. Joss studied him. He was absolutely still, except when he took an occasional sip from his own glass. He was more relaxed than she'd ever seen him.

He'd been that still the first time she'd seen him. Ragged, dirty, slightly drunk, but absolutely still. Hopeless. He'd come a hell of a long way since then.

"Hmmm?" Reese said, as if she'd spoken. He turned his head to look at her.

"Just thinking about the first time we met," Joss answered. "You clean up pretty good."

His mouth did something between a grin and a grimace. "I knew you were good people the first time I saw you. Tryin' to help a homeless bum, when anybody else would have thrown him in the can."

"Well, if you'd been around another thirty seconds, I _would_ have thrown you in the can, once those fingerprints came back."

"I would have deserved it. Probably still do."

Joss patted at her hips with her free hand. "Ah, damn, forgot my cuffs again. Maybe next time." She took a sip of her drink. "Damn, this is good."

"Want a refill?"

"No, I'm good. Right in that perfect spot between uninhibited and irresponsible."

Reese wiggled an eyebrow at her. "Really. That sounds promising."

"Maybe it is."

The playfulness left his eyes. He tried to speak, stopped, swallowed, then said, "Joss …"

 _Ooooooh_ , Joss thought. _He talks a good game, but this boy is just a little bit shy._

 _So what are you going to do about it, Joss?_

She pulled her feet in, put her glass down, and stood up. "I'm going home." She met his eyes directly. "Unless you want me to stay."

John's mouth moved again, and again he didn't speak. He just stared at her, his blue eyes confused and wild and, Joss thought, wanting.

But he didn't speak.

She picked up her shoes and started for the door.

"Wait," he said. It came out like a tortured croak.

Joss turned and looked at him.

"Wait for me," he said, more clearly.

Then he was on his feet and moving, and then his arms were around her, and then his mouth was on hers and he was saying just one word, over and over and over.

 _Stay._

Joss fit herself in his arms and returned the kiss. "I'm not going anywhere," she assured him.


End file.
